


Arafinwiel's Alphabet

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for B2MEM 2016, continued for B2MEM 2017, unrelated tales for B2MEM 2007's alphabetical prompts.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hands of Madness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Susana Rosa (SusanaR)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/gifts).



_Creak. Creak. Creak._ The steps to the Tower squeak unpleasantly. They are thick with dust, and my eyes water as I ascend, my son following in my wake. O yes, my son, for though I did not give birth to him, I was there for him from the moment he fell into my arms.

 

My husband climbs before us. We make a strange procession up these stairs – King, Queen, Prince of the North – for every time these stairs have known a bearer before, he always walked alone, or with his heir only.

 

The wood lining the walls is unpleasantly splintered, and as Estel opens the door, the smell of smoke reaches my nose. There is a choked gasp, and I turn to grab my son – he is so very young yet! – and hold him close. “Faran, my Faran, there, hush now – _Naneth_ is here, _ion muin nin._ Do not fear, none can harm you, ‘tis but a memory – one we shall face together.”

 

He turns with a soft sob into my arms, and I hold my son tightly. “Come now, my Faran. Let us have this over with. Your _adar_ is waiting for us.”

 

One step, two, three…We walk into the smoke-scented room together. The scent must be naught but a memory, for the air here is clean. But now Estel raises the cloth covering the table. Together we look, and we see them.  
  
Hands.  
  
Burning hands, where _he_ gripped the stone in his madness. I snarl an oath under my breath, not at all concerned about politeness since _he_ is out of my reach. Faran laughs shakily.

 

“Naneth Arwen!”  


“Yes, tyenya?” I call him by the term I used for him in childhood. He returns my smile weakly.

 

“That was _rude.”_ His seventeen-year-old sensibilities are offended. I snort.

 

“Denethor was rude,” I reply, and he sobers at once, frustrated tears in his eyes. “Go on, tyenya. Say it. Tell him.”

 

Faran turns to the seeing-stone. “You foul son of an orc!” he snarls. “Why? Why did you try to take me back? Why did you try to _burn_ me? Why couldn’t you have…have loved me as much as…” He chokes on a sob, and I pull him back into my arms, rocking my boy.

 

“As much as Boromir,” Estel finishes, and Faran flinches in my arms, shuddering. A ragged breath, and then…

 

“Yes. Why couldn’t you have loved me, loved _Faramir_ as much as Boromir?” he demands of the silent Stone.

No answer. But that is enough. I give him to his father’s arms.

 

“Ada,” Faran whispers, and Estel holds him close, loving him, _healing_ him. No more fire. No more pain. Just tears, many tears, but cleansing ones. Denethor is dead now. I cover the Palantir myself, giving it one more hateful look.

 

The time for hatred is past. There is nothing to be gained by remaining antagonistic toward a dead madman cuckolded by his own father’s plotting and enchanted by Sauron. Denethor is dead. The Dark Lord is dead.

 

Finduilas is dead, but her sons are in my keeping, mine and Estel’s. That, in my view, is enough.

 

“Estel, let us go. Come, tyenya, my Faran.”

 

Moments later, the Palantir is alone again, as we descend the splintered stair.


	2. Love Unfulfilled in Dorthonion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir and Aegnor had one thing in common - she loved them. But Aegnor would not act on that love...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andreth, elder daughter of Boromir of Ladros, was called Saelind by the Elves.
> 
> In mine and AfricanDaisy's tales, Aegnor is Galadriel's twin.

“Aegnor,” Andreth sank to her knees beside the fallen pine upon which her love sat, stretching her hands out to him. “Beloved, I beg of thee, listen _,_ I need thee. Thou knowest how we desire each other, and this love is true. Why should we not wed?”

Aegnor bowed his golden head, the flame of passion burning brightly in his eyes and – elsewhere in his body, though he willed Andreth not to see how much he hated to pain her. _O Nerwen, my sister, other half of my fea, how I wish thou wert with me!_ He missed his twin dreadfully, though his brother Angrod perhaps understood him better than she. Still, a woman’s touch was required in such a delicate situation…and he knew what Nerwen would think of _that._ Delicate she was not. He gave himself a mental shake and refocused.

“Saelind,” he said softly. “I love thee, I would die for thee, but I cannot wed thee while the shadow of war looms over us. My kind do not bring forth children in such times. Do not ask of me what I cannot give.” He rose fluidly and hastily turned away.

“Cannot, or _will_ not?” she cried. “Aegnor!” But he leaped lightly over the fallen tree and she knew, as he sped off, that she would never catch him. She turned and fled toward the swimming hole, where she could calm herself before returning to her father’s house.

Andreth ran so swiftly, so heedlessly, that she tripped over her brother Bregor, sending them both to the ground.

“Sister!” he cried, getting up. “Andreth, what troubles thee? Is it the Elf?”

“The _Elf,_ as you say, is our lord, Brother,” Andreth replied bitterly, “here to order our comings and goings as he will. Father may be accounted Lord of Ladros, but what is that to the mighty Hir Aegnor, prince of the Lechenn?”

Bregor scowled. “He hurt thee, then. Rejected thy suit. More fool he. Aegnor the Mighty indeed – Aegnor the _Elfling_ I would say.” He snarled an oath not at all suitable for his sister’s ears and spat on the ground. “I would take thee home at once. Father does not fare well.”

Learning that his eldest daughter had been relentlessly pursuing their Elven lord would not have sat well with Father, Andreth supposed. She sighed. “He hath taken another fit, then?”

Bregor nodded grimly. It had been, perhaps, two years since Lord Boromir had begun having these fits; it began as some device of the Enemy, he doubted it not. A fever which had near enough taken their father from them – he had recovered, but ever after been subject to infrequent spells where his body jerked and twitched like a man possessed of a curse. They tended to come upon him more often of late, ever since Andreth and Aegnor had caught each other’s eyes. “Mother and Beril are bathing him,” he said finally – a remark which made Andreth rather glad she had _not_ gone to the swimming hole. “Come, let us go home.”

Brother and sister went home hand in hand, but when they reached the village, Beril met them at the door. “Mother is helping Father to bed,” she said quietly. “If he does not improve…he may make thee the next Lord soon, brother.”

Andreth paled, looking at Bregor, then back to their younger sister. “Dost thou think Father will…die?”

“Eventually,” Beril muttered, “we all will.” She raised her eyes to Andreth’s. “Please stop chasing after Lord Aegnor,” she implored her sister. “He will not cleave to thee. We all know this.”  
  
“He _wants_ to,” Andreth replied. “But for Father’s sake…and thine, brother,” she added, giving Bregor’s cheek a dutiful kiss, “I will stop.”

She would never give birth to Aegnor’s children – but it was better than burying her father just yet.


	3. Circumstances in the City of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldacar the King...and Eldacar the prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double dribble, inverted. 
> 
> Prince Eldacar, Elessar's great-grandson, is my OC.

Eldacar, the half-blood king of Gondor, wars with his kin.

He, Vidumavia’s son, holds the Citadel of the Stars.

Vinitharya, Valacar’s heir, of North and South together.

Castamir, Captain of Ships, slew his son.

Ornendil! His blood cries for vengeance.

Eldacar sits alone under stars.

Holding the Master Stone,

He wishes for

It to

End.

 

A

New age

Sees Osgiliath rebuilt.

Amidst the graves of

His noble ancestors, the prince

Walks at whiles. Ornendil, he sees

For the ghosts of the Fall speak

To this small great-grandson of Elessar. He returns

Their greetings, too young yet to be afraid.

Of _barrow-wights_ he knows nothing. These remnants are harmless

And salute their prince, Eldacar of Gondor, of Telcontar’s House.


	4. A New Addition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourth Age 25 - Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien, has just given birth to her fourth child, and takes him to be introduced to his siblings and cousins in the schoolroom of Meduseld. What she finds there is rather surprising...

Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien, was walking past the schoolroom in Meduseld, rocking her new son in her arms, when she heard Théodwyn’s and Éomund’s voices raised in song. She stopped to listen to her brother's thirteen-year-old twins, her lips twitching in amusement.

 _“A hobbit of habit is Nob o’ the Lea,_ _  
_Oh, a hobbit of habit is he, is he!__

 _First breakfast he has at the rise of the sun,_ _  
_Two eggs, a sausage and one sticky bun._  
_He stays at the table until it is done,_  
_And then back to bed is his idea of fun.”__

She nudged the door open, and looked inside. Master Earnfród sat at the desk, eyeing his charges with reluctant amusement. In his seventies, the Man was one of Éomer’s Witan, canny and wise, but also the trusted tutor of the royal children of Rohan, whether they dwelt within the Golden Hall or were visiting. Still, he tended to be indulgent with his visiting charges, as she well knew.

Seventeen-year-old Elfwine, she could see now, was reclining on the bench nearest the wall with an amused smirk on his lips. Eldarion and her Elboron, sixteen and fifteen, fidgeted impatiently on either side of him. All three were no doubt eager to be out of the schoolroom, and likely Elboron had been worried over her.

All the while, seven-year-old Gilraen and Morwen were listening raptly to the twins’ singing. Nine-year-old Finduilas was beginning to hum along, and Éowyn laughed, catching the attention of all the children.

“Aunt Éowyn!”

“Moder!”

“Éowyn!”

The cries from the children, almost simultaneous, caused Éowyn to laugh more as the singing cut off and they ran to the door to surround her with fond hugs and a barrage of questions.

“Stop, stop, the lot of you. Now,” Éowyn said, holding her babe protectively, “all of you _not_ of Ithilien, go sit. And Éomund, Théodwyn, you two as well. You _will_ give your apologies to Master Earnfród for not attending.”

Resigned sighs and nods greeted this announcement, and soon all but Elboron and Finduilas were back in the schoolroom.

“Moder,” Elboron said, “where is Merilossë? Should she not be here to greet her new…”

“Brother,” Finduilas said confidently, and Elboron looked at her. “Morwen told me,” Finduilas explained.

“How did _Morwen_ know?” Elboron shook his head.

Éowyn smiled faintly. “Yes, a brother,” she agreed, “and Merilossë was first to greet him, for she is a woman now, and a full healer, not only an apprentice. She attended the birth.”

“Oh,” Finduilas sighed. “I want to hold him. May I? What is his name?”

“You will learn that on his Naming Day, just as everyone else will,” Éowyn said, helping her daughter to hold the newborn. “Now, who is going to tell me what _that_ was all about?”

Elboron sighed. “The twins didn’t like the lesson they were set, so they decided to give us all a song they learned from Uncle Holdwine, instead.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what lesson was that?”

“It was ancient history,” Finduilas said. “Something about a vale and mountains, filled with spiders, where Beren had to cross to get to Doriath.” She wrinkled her nose. “Such places do not _really_ exist.”

The Lady of Ithilien looked at her youngest daughter. “Did Uncle Holdwine tell you the tale of your Uncles Panthael and Iorhael, and the spider?”

“Shelob,” Finduilas nodded. “But she was just _one_ spider.”

“Yet she had a mother, and brothers and sisters,” Éowyn replied. Finduilas’ eyes widened in shock.

“I am glad _you_ are not a giant spider,” she told the baby in her arms after a moment of pensive silence.

“Don’t be silly, Fin,” Elboron said with a laugh. “Moder wouldn’t have a spider! She would have a _dragon!”_ He smirked as Finduilas shrieked, and wrinkled his nose as the baby began to howl. “A very _dirty_ dragon,” he added as Finduilas thrust the baby into her mother’s arms, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Éowyn shooed her older children back inside. The newest son of Rohan and Ithilien needed immediate attention!


	5. Elrond Was A Poet...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond, hearing the Song of Eärendil sung by Bilbo in the Hall of Fire, retired to his rooms afterward and took up his own pen. This is what came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also known as "The REAL story of Earendil the Mariner - by Elrond Peredhel". Written for the prompt "Like an Evil Elrond". A pantoum, rather longer than usual, based off the ‘Song of Eärendil’. It may be found in Elrond’s Library – on a shelf so high no hobbit can reach it! (That’s what makes him evil. *nods* Hiding poetry from a poem-loving hobbit! Although it'd be even MORE evil to tell Bilbo he didn't like Bilbo's effort, but I couldn't make Elrond THAT evil, it's impossible.)

_"Eärendil was a mariner_  
 _that tarried in Arvernien;_  
 _he built a boat of timber felled_  
 _in Nimbrethil to journey in…”_  
  
_That tarried in Arvernien –_  
 _Beeches, tall, fairest and pale_  
 _In Nimbrethil, to journey in_  
 _The fairest ship to ever sail!_  
  
_Beeches, tall, fairest and pale_  
 _Gave their wood to aid their lord,_  
 _For fairest ship to ever sail,_  
 _The Peredhel did swiftly board._  
  
_They gave wood to aid their lord_  
 _In building him the Vingilótë;_  
 _The Peredhel did swiftly board,_  
 _Westward, Sea bore Elven-boat._  
  
_In building him the Vingilótë,_  
 _The Mariner one error made;_  
 _As westward Sea bore Elven-boat,_  
 _His wife and babes behind him stayed._  
  
_The Mariner one error made;_  
 _As in chainéd rings west he soared,_  
 _His wife and babes behind him stayed,_  
 _Unarmed and helpless near the shore._  
  
_In chainéd rings westward he soared,_  
 _Rune-scored shield he kept by him;_  
 _Unarmed and helpless near the shore_  
 _Elwing and sons did mourn for him._  
  
 _Rune-scored shield he kept by him,_  
 _And bow of dragon horn he wrought;_  
 _Elwing and sons did mourn for him,_  
 _When Sons of Fëanor they fought._  
  
_With bow of dragon-horn he wrought_  
 _He brought down birds of Outer Sea;_  
 _But when Sons of Fëanor she’d fought,_  
 _To him at last did Elwing flee._  
  
_He’d brought down birds of Outer Sea,_  
 _But for this bright one he stayed his hand._  
 _To him at last did Elwing flee,_  
 _And in bird-shape on him did land._  
  
_For this bright one he’d stayed his hand –_  
 _Glad was he to find it so!_  
 _For in bird-shape Elwing on him did land_  
 _With the Nauglamir in tow._  
  
_Glad was he to find it so,_  
 _Perhaps Lord Ulmo stayed him there._  
 _With the Nauglamir in tow,_  
 _The Silmaril bright Elwing did bear._  
  
_Mayhap Lord Ulmo had stayed him there,_  
 _But onward Vingilot! Westward speed!_  
 _The Silmaril bright Elwing did bear,_  
 _And the Mariner knew hope they did need._  
  
_Onward Vingilot! Westward speed,_  
 _The Valar we must press for aid,_  
 _The Mariner knew hope we did need,_  
 _The sons whose lives might be betrayed._  
  
_The Valar they did press for aid,_  
 _And Star of Hope in time did rise._  
 _The sons who, abandoned, felt betrayed_  
 _Looked to Gil-Estel with new eyes._  
  
_The Star of Hope in time did rise,_  
 _Eärendil the Glorious, ever blessed_  
 _We found Gil-Estel with new eyes,_  
 _Elros and I, we passed the test._  
  
_Eärendil the Glorious, ever blessed_  
 _Returned no more to Mortal lands_  
 _Elros and I, we passed the test_  
 _Elros departed for Andor’s sands._  
  
_Returned no more from Mortal lands,_  
 _Elros Tar-Minyatur, brother mine,_  
 _He remained on Andor’s sands,_  
 _Accepting Gift of Men in time._  
  
_Elros Tar-Minyatur, brother mine,_  
 _How could you pass with not a sigh?_  
 _You accepted the Gift of Men –_  
 _I made my choice. Immortal, I._  
  
_How could you pass without a sigh_  
 _Of protest for that which Mortal means?_  
 _I made my choice, immortal, I,_  
 _The life of Men is too brief, it seems._  
  
_Protest that which Mortal means!_  
 _Would that I could have told you then,_  
 _The life of Men is too brief, it seems_  
 _And its Gift beyond my elven ken._  
  
_Would that I could have told you then!_  
 _Or built a ship of beech-wood felled,_  
 _Ere this Gift, beyond my Elven ken_  
 _Took you from me as our sire sailed._


	6. A Fearful Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his father and brother going into great danger, Faramir couldn’t possibly be left behind – no matter how afraid he is to go forth.

“Brother, surely you cannot mean to leave me behind! It was I who received the message,” Faramir protested, even as they clasped hands in farewell. “Surely you realise this is madness. With you and Father _both_ gone, who will rule the City?”  
  
“You, of course, Faramir,” came the calm, somewhat surprised reply. “You are more than capable. You know this. I am Captain-General of Gondor, brother – I must ride at Father’s side. Our enemy’s strength is great; he would have me with him as we fight to defend our country together. And if there is aid to be found, surely Father and I together will find it.”  
  
“ _Mir,”_ he found himself whispering, switching to flawless Sindarin though his voice shook. “Muindor, _please,_ let me come with you – I am afraid if you go, I will never see you again. Never see you or Ada again.”  
  
“We will find each other again, _muindor dithen.”_  
  
“Come, my son, we must make haste. Faramir, go back inside.” His father sounded worried, impatient, but overall stern. “You will rule in my place as Steward until my return. Now go, keep the Citadel for us. I have faith in you. Do not break my trust.”  
  
“Yes, Father,” Faramir whispered. Nevertheless, he watched until their horses were out of sight, surrounded by guards. They were not riding to war just yet, after all – merely seeking aid and an answer.  
  
He looked East, and shuddered. War would fall soon enough.  
  
Days passed; a week, perhaps two. No sign of them, but portents of war had come at last. Finally, he had enough.  
  
He summoned Pelendur, his father’s chief counsellor, and asked for his horse and provisions. “I ride to find our lords,” he said grimly, when Pelendur had given him all he asked for.  
  
“Who will rule until your return?” Pelendur asked as Faramir pulled on a stained green cloak, the hood covering his dark hair well. Faramir handed him a ring of keys.  
  
“Keep the city well, my lord – and if all else fails, look to the North for aid.” He rode swiftly for the plains of the Morannon, where he felt he would find an end to his quest.  
  
Along the path, he fell in with the Horse-folk, as he thought he would; they were retreating from the plain of the Morannon, attempting to rejoin their Gondorian allies in the battle. He spurred his horse on in time to see the King of Gondor fall.  
  
“ _Father!”_ Terrified, Faramir broke away and fought his way through the warriors, striking out with his sword until his path was clear. When he finally knelt beside Ondoher’s broken body, he found it covering another – his beloved brother.  
  
 _Artamir…_  
  
“No! Artamir, no…” Faramir cried, and his fear, his grief, turned to fury. Every last one of these Wainriders would die, he resolved in that moment. The Éothéod defended Faramir as best they could, but eventually the line was broken.  
  
Silver horns sounded in the distance. The banners of Prince Adrahil flew over the field. Gondor would have aid – too late.  
  
Faramir, son of Ondoher, was slain ere the Prince's knights ever joined the battle – and the struggle for Gondor’s crown had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faramir, son of Ondoher of Gondor, was the younger brother of Artamir and elder brother of Firiel. Firiel, Ondoher's only surviving child, had married Arvedui, last King of Arnor (Arthedain), and though Arvedui tried to claim Gondor's throne he was rebuffed. The Kingship was granted instead by Lord Pelendur to General Eärnil, reigning as Eärnil II. Eärnil II was the third cousin of Artamir, Faramir and Firiel and had distinguished himself in the Battle of the Camp.
> 
> Eärnil II's son, Eärnur, would be Gondor's last King until the restoration of the Reunited Kingdom with the coronation of Aragorn Elessar.


	7. Atop the King's Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elendil gives Galadriel a taste of home one day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B2MeM Challenge: 2016 Memories; 2007 Alphabet – like a gasping Galadriel
> 
> “It is said that the towers of Emyn Beraid were not built indeed by the Exiles of Númenor, but were raised by Gil-galad for Elendil, his friend; and the Seeing Stone of Emyn Beraid was set in Elostirion, the tallest of the towers. Thither Elendil would repair, and thence he would gaze out over the sundering seas, when the yearning of exile was upon him; and it is believed that thus he would at whiles see far away even the Tower of Avallónë upon Eressëa, where the Masterstone abode, and yet abides."

"Come, my Lady, and look, if you will." They stood at the base of the Tower of Elostirion, which her kinsman had built for his use, and Galadriel marvelled at how much it recalled Ingwe's Tower in faraway Tirion.

 

"I will, if the way is not closed."

 

Elendil opened the door, and they ascended the winding stair together. The King of Men opened the trap door, and lowered the ladder. "I will ascend first, if you will permit me, my Lady."

 

"It would be a kindness, Aran Elendil, and I thank you." Climbing trees was one thing, but ladders inside unfamiliar towers...

 

So Elendil ascended, and Galadriel followed, accepting the hand the King of Men offered. Elros' long-son closed the door after her, and beckoned her to stand before the plinth, covered by a silken cloth. He withdrew the cloth, and revealed it; the Seeing-stone.

 

Her half-uncle's creation.

 

Galadriel could not help the sharp intake of breath as it drew her nearer. How she hated him, but this work of his hands was beautiful, and if it could show her, if she could see...

 

She looked, longing.

 

On the other side, she saw Aman spreading out before her; the mighty, snow-capped Pelóri, the green fields of Yavanna, the woods of Oromë, glittering Valmar with its jewelled mansions. At the foot of the Calacirya, Alqualondë by the pearl-strewn beaches - and on the green hill of Tuna, stood Tirion.

 

Tirion! She gasped.

 

"Atya...Emya..."

 

She never realised she had spoken aloud - and Elendil pretended ignorance as salty tears spilled down the Lady's pale cheeks.


	8. Halbarad in "Hidden Hope"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halbarad, fifteen-year-old scion of the Rangers, never expected to be sent so far from his home, for an entire season. But in the settlement of Esteldín, he finds more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in my Arnor-verse, with influences from Lord of the Rings Online. You do not have to be familiar with the game to read this. Written for the prompt “Animals” and also as I’m trying to catch up with a few of last year’s “Memories” prompts, for “like a hale Halbarad”.

Summer TA 2941, Esteldín, North Downs, Arnor

Halbarad, elder son of Handoron and Lady Arneth, had never yet been far from Tâduin - the farming village of Two Rivers, home of the immediate family of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. His home was an unassuming place in the Angle – the Enemy would overlook it as unimportant, surely. But his tutors, particularly Uncle Taithir, would never let him forget that once, the scions of Númenor had built cities and strongholds of stone. Now, fifteen summers old and ready to see the wider world, he expected to see such places at last.

Esteldín, hidden in a rift valley of the Kingsfell Mountains, had never been intended as a settlement of great size. Still, the fortress which sat upon the ruins of ancient Dolindîr was well-built, even if most of the dwellings were tents. As the folk of Esteldín gathered for supper, he was shown where to place his own tent.

At the meal, the young Dúnadan found himself too excited to focus on eating. He couldn’t wait to explore. But that had to wait for the morrow, so he spent the evening being introduced to the Rangers, crafters and trainers all, hoping to remember their names. Finally, he fell into bed, exhausted, and slept till morning, rising with Anor as was Dúnedain custom. Then, he went to explore.

The old crafting-hall of Dolindîr had been rebuilt, and as Halbarad stepped through the doors, he had to shade his eyes. The forges blazed with fire brighter than that of any dragon – he had never yet seen its like. Swords, spears and even hammers were wrought there; jewels of great worth were cut and shaped at some of the workbenches, while armourers worked with metal and leather at others, and tailors plied their own crafts.

The jewelsmith, Daemirdan, held particular fascination for him. Halbarad watched intently as Master Daemirdan fashioned jewels of bright clarity, setting them into earrings, bracelets and rings of many precious metals. But the sweat dripped from his brown in the unaccustomed heat, and Daemirdan flashed the lad a look as he mopped his brow. “If you can’t take the heat, lad, best be on your way,” he grunted. “Outside’s the best place for such as you.”

Stung, Halbarad turned away, face flushed with more than the fire’s heat. Daemirdan’s wife, Mistress Tadhrien, snorted derisively. “Pay him no mind, Halbarad,” she said. “You’re certainly welcome in here, especially if you wish to learn a craft. I’m of the mind to take an apprentice myself.”

Tadhrien’s offer was tempting, Halbarad had to admit. The idea of learning to craft his own spears and bows would serve him well, and it would serve Tâduin. He could contribute little by making jewelry as Daemirdan did. He begged leave to think it over, which was granted, and retired to Esteldín’s library to gather his thoughts.

The library was not so grand as the archive he’d heard was kept by Master Elrond in Imladris, he was sure. Still, looking around he felt nothing but awe. Such books and scrolls he had never seen in all his life before, he was certain.

He found himself drawn to a slender volume, the Narn-en-El, or Tale of the Star. Taking it down carefully, he seated himself and began to read. Absorbed in the story of his longfather, Halbarad didn’t look up until something cold and wet poked in between his shoulder blades, and he heard a growl – yes, growl – causing him to cry out in surprise.

A laugh greeted his reaction, and Halbarad spun round, hand flying to his hip. But the young Man standing before him raised his hands in a defensive stance. “Peace, brother Dúnadan! I am Gwalothir, and am but a humble student of lore.” The brown beast standing beside him nosed Gwalothir affectionately. “And this,” Gwalothir carried on, “is Melui, and she is more trouble than she is worth.”

Melui growled again.

Halbarad’s brows had nearly met his hairline when he first noticed what Melui was. “You…have a bear in the library.”

“She’s tame.”

“A bear.”

Gwalothir shrugged. “She likes me. She likes you, too. I could tell.” He looked at the book Halbarad had dropped. “Or perhaps she likes Eärendil. I’m sure I don’t know.” He picked up the Narn-en-El and handed it back. “I apologise,” he added belatedly. “I did not mean to frighten you, kinsman.”

“Halbarad. My name is Halbarad, son of Handoron,” Halbarad managed to get out at last. “At your service.”

Gwalothir laughed joyously. “Then we are kinsmen indeed, son of Handoron! For Nestadam, my mother, is cousin to Handoron. Did he not come with you?”

Halbarad shook his head. “No. I came with the Esteldín Rangers who wintered in Tâduin,” he explained.

“Ah.” Gwalothir nodded. “A pity. I was hoping to show him how much Melui had grown since he saw her last.”

“You have a pet bear,” Halbarad repeated in disbelief.

“If cousin Handoron tells me true, you have an entire clan of bears in Taduin,” Gwalothir retorted with an easy grin.

“Skin-changers,” Halbarad said idly. “That isn’t the same thing.” Still, he took the hand his kinsman offered, and allowed Gwalothir to draw him back out into the sunshine. Nestadam, the healer for all of Esteldin, would want to be sure he hadn’t been unduly harmed by his shock!

All the while, Melui padded along behind, looking rather pleased with herself as she investigated her young master’s friend for treats.

This would be a very interesting summer indeed.


End file.
